


your sharp and glorious thorn

by queenbaskerville



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Everybody Lives, F/F, Fairytale elements, Height Differences, Magic, Rare Pairings, Snow White Elements, Timeline What Timeline, author has a terrible sense of time, bisexual renfri, except stregobor lol, lesbian marilka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenbaskerville/pseuds/queenbaskerville
Summary: Renfri gets her revenge. And a little bit more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Marilka, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Marilka/Renfri
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	your sharp and glorious thorn

**Author's Note:**

> title from “shrike” by hozier
> 
> also i know the real timeline is longer and more complicated but I wanted to get these characters to interact so just... suspend your disbelief please, I only have two (2) brain cells and they’re both on vacation
> 
> the actress who plays marilka is 23 and the actress who plays renfri is 26; in this fic I’d say marilka is maybe around 19 and renfri is around 23?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feminist brain: the show killed renfri off for no good reason, after moralistic preaching, shaming women who are victims of sexual, misogynistic, and otherwise brutal violence for wanting revenge, as well as fridging her as a love interest providing angst to geralt for the rest of the season, and it wasn’t right, in this essay I will—
> 
> lesbian brain: renfri sexy

Renfri doesn’t buy into Geralt’s holier-than-thou, “You’re a monster if you want revenge” spiel. She does know, however, that without Geralt’s help to get into Stregobor’s magically-protected tower, her plan to kill Stregobor is kind of messy—just start killing townspeople in the market until he comes down. It’s what she wants to do. Desperately. Her whole self throbs with bloodlust. But she knows, deep down, that the townspeople won’t be effective hostages. Stregobor is a ruthless bastard—the real monster, if anyone asks Renfri, which they won’t—and he won’t give a damn if every single person in that town dies under her sword. He will never come down.

Geralt doesn't know why she has come to him again. He gazes at her now, his face calm, his golden eyes steady, waiting for her decision.

"You gave me an ultimatum, and I find that they work," she says, the words bitter on her tongue. "I'm leaving Blaviken tomorrow for good. Before the market."

"Hmm," he says.

"Stay with me tonight," she says.

He stays.

She’s not sure which of them makes the first move. But he’s pretty, in his own way, this man. And he’s safe. And it’s been so long since she’s had the pleasure of someone’s company this way. Maybe it’s been the same long time for him. Maybe her promise not to turn “monstrous” soothes him. Maybe the monstrous parts of her call to the monstrous parts of him. Whatever it is, they settle on the ground together, over his bedroll, and he rocks into her until the hunger in each of them is sated.

Renfri dreams of an ash-haired girl running through the woods. Not just a dream, Renfri knows. A vision. She rarely has them, but, every now and then, they come to her in her sleep. Another one of Lilit’s little gifts.

Renfri wakes up in Geralt’s arms. He’s warm, and he sleeps without snoring, silent but for the soft, slow huff of his breath.

She slips out of his embrace and pulls her cloak around herself.

“The girl in the woods,” Renfri murmurs, “will be with you always. She is your destiny.”

Geralt doesn’t stir. But Lilit breathes through Renfri’s throat. Renfri can feel her in every mouthful of words.

Blood, stones. That bit dissipates. It doesn’t belong to Renfri’s story anymore. But something remains.

“You’ll make a choice,” Renfri says. “You’ll never know if it was the right one.”

* * *

Half her men, including Nohorn, choose to stay in Blaviken. They part with quick hugs and no promises to see each other again--they all know the likelihood of that, with lives like theirs. The other half leave with her. A few towns later, in an inn, they hear whispers about a witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, who slaughtered many men in a battle in the marketplace. A few questions in the right places gets Renfri the number of men killed: the same number of her men who’d decided to stay. She mourns a moment, but can’t begrudge Geralt this if it’s true, not really. Even though the stories demonize Geralt, it had likely been self defense. She remembers how Nohorn and the rest of her men had behaved in that inn. They should’ve left well enough alone.

On the road a week later, mercenaries attack Renfri and her remaining men.

“Demon bitch,” one of the men screams as he arcs his sword at her.

His swing goes wide. She sidesteps easily and puts her own sword through his neck.

“Did Stregobor send you?” Renfri calls to another of the mercenaries, who has crossed swords with one of her men.

“He promised handsome pay,” the mercenary says. “Almost took the job for free, though, you monstrous whore.”

For free? Doubtful. Renfri will take pleasure in killing him for his insults, though. 

Renfri’s man shoves the mercenary back and tries to stab him again. Renfri goes for the third mercenary, who has just cut down her archer.

Renfri wins. But not without cost—she has to bury the bodies of her men alone.

She stands over the fresh graves of her men. The bodies of the mercenaries, strewn in the road, have begun to attract quietly buzzing flies.

She thinks of Geralt and his choices. About his choice not to choose, and how that meant that Stregobor remained protected and empowered.

And Stregobor had chosen to take Renfri’s departure as an opportunity rather than the undeserved mercy it had been. He thinks he’s got her on the run.

“Fuck this,” Renfri says.

She goes back to Blaviken.

* * *

Renfri remembers Stregobor’s little servant who’d approached Geralt at the inn’s bar. A blonde girl, perhaps a few years younger than Renfri, but far more naive and sheltered. Renfri had been keeping track of her for a couple days, back then, watching her movements. Asking around now provides a name: Marilka, daughter of the alderman. Sheltered for sure, then.

The idea of Stregobor having such easy access to a girl like that makes Renfri’s skin crawl.

It's easy to find her. Marilka lurks by the stables, hunched down in the straw, clearly stalking something. She's not a frail girl, but she's too close to a horse's hooves for Renfri's liking. One wrong move and that spooked horse could cave the girl's head in. Renfri's stomach doesn't quite turn at the idea of blood and brains in the straw—she's killed too many people over the years for that—but she gets a strong urge to yank Marilke out of there.

"A cat," Marilka says.

She hasn't turned to see Renfri's approach. Renfri doesn't say anything.

"Master Irion said he'd pay me more for an orange one," Marilka says. "Not sure why the color matters, but I know an orange one hangs out here eating the stable mice, so."

"His name's not Irion," Renfri says.

Marilka does turn her head, at that. Her eyes—a dull hazel—widen when she sees Renfri, and she rises to her feet. Renfri had forgotten how short she is—Renfri is as tall or taller than most men she encounters. Marilka is tiny. Renfri could rest her chin on Marilka's head without bending down at all. Not that they'd ever be that close.

Marilka's breaths come quick with fear. Renfri keeps herself at ease.

"Expecting someone else?"

Marilka brushes a stray strand of blonde hair out of her face and visibly tries to calm down.

"I wasn't expecting anyone in particular," Marilke says, "but I thought you left weeks ago."

"Did Stregobor tell you about me?" Renfri says.

Marilka frowns. 

"Who's Stregobor?"

Lilit help her. She doesn't even know.

Renfri considers the girl in front of her. 

"Come to dinner with me," Renfri says. "We have a lot to discuss."

They get a table in the back corner of the inn where Renfri had first met Geralt. Where she'd first met Marilka, too, though she hadn't thought much of it at the time beyond noting that she was Stregobor's. Renfri buys them each a pint of ale.

Honesty had almost been enough to sway Geralt. Renfri knows Marilka won't be as resistant to justice as Geralt was. She doesn't have the same baggage. It's why Renfri tells Marilka the truth. All of it, everything she'd said to Geralt in the woods.

It's the only reason. It has nothing to do with the softness of Marilka's face, the concern in her warm eyes as the story goes on, the way her mouth hardens into a thin line as the cruelty of all of it—Stregobor's, Renfri's—unravels before her. Renfri had felt like a spider weaving around Geralt, when she'd told him. With Marilka, it tiptoes along the lines of confessional. It leaves Renfri nervous. That's not how this is supposed to be. If it weren't for Marilka being her only hope, Renfri would've walked away right then. Renfri's whole frame is tenser than wood beams. Talking to Marilka should feel like dropping her guard in a knife fight. It should feel wrong. But it doesn’t, deep down. It’s easy. It’s right. It shouldn’t be. 

It's better that Marilka doesn't offer any words of comfort, only absorbs the story into herself. Renfri can see it clicking into Marilka's brain, filing away in there, adjusting Marilka's view of Renfri. It's better this way. This is a transaction. Renfri pays in information, in exposing her own weaknesses.

"You came back for him," Marilka says.

"Yes," Renfri says.

"You want me to help you."

Renfri leans forward over their little.

"Yes," Renfri says. “Since you're his servant—”

"Assistant."

"—you go freely and unsuspected in and out of his tower. If you can get me in," Renfri says, "I can finally kill him."

"Why now?" Marilka says. "Those weeks ago, when you were here with those men. You'd've had the advantage then. Why'd you leave?"

"Geralt convinced me," Renfri says. She intends to say more, but at Geralt's name, Marilka looks away, something pained crossing her face.

"You're afraid of him," Renfri says. She keeps her voice neutral. A small kernel of disappointment pokes at her.

"No," Marilka says. "It was just—a bad day."

"Butcher of Blaviken," Renfri says. "I heard about it on the road."

Renfri expects Marilka to be more upset—to cry thinking of the bodies and the blood, maybe. Or to be angry. But it's regret, more than anything, that paints her face now.

“There’s a lot of talk,” Marilka says. “But when I’m alone, thinking about it—”

“So,” Renfri prods, “the rumor that Geralt attacked first?”

“It’s a lie,” Marilka says. She shakes her head. “It’s a lie, yet—”

She struggles. Renfri waits. 

“It was hard, seeing him kill all those men,” Marilka says slowly. “I knew it was self defense. But then everyone started yelling and throwing things. I didn’t throw anything, but it all happened so fast—everyone was so angry—” Marilka pinches her own sleeves, worrying the fabric between two fingers. “I told him to leave and never come back. I kept telling myself after that it was for the best. No one else wanted him there. So I was helping him, really, by giving him that nudge. But he looked so _hurt_.”

Renfri is a little surprised by this. After that story he’d told her about the first girl he’d ever saved, she’d’ve thought he’d be used to such reactions by now. He’d made it seem like that was the case when he’d told it. But he was still soft, it seems. And got his soft heart hurt once again. 

Renfri has not had a soft heart for a long, long time. 

“Stregobor has been trying to have me killed for years,” she says. “But if you help me, I can finally kill him. I can finally be free.”

Marilka’s face, briefly clouded by grief, clears up when she looks at Renfri, weighing her words. 

“I’ll help you,” Marilka says finally. “What do you need me to do?”


End file.
